


when the sun met the moon

by Clizzyismymom



Category: Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: BAMF Isabelle Lightwood, Background Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Bisexual Clary Fray, Endgame Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, F/F, F/M, Jace Being an Asshole, Jealous Jace, POV Clary Fray, Protective Isabelle Lightwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clizzyismymom/pseuds/Clizzyismymom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Clary Fray meets Jace Wayland, she thinks he's an angel, albeit a sarcastic one.  However, when she first meets Isabelle Lightwood, she thinks she's a goddess.  Too bad she's Jace's sister, but even so, Clary can't seem to get her out of her mind.  Set in an AU where Jace is a photographer, Clary is an artist, and Izzy is a model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the sun met the moon

The day Clary had been waiting for was finally here, albeit not as sunny as she thought it would be. Today the sky was cloudy, the kind of spring day that seemed to last for ages, because the day before was identical to the day before, the days melting into a sort of cloudy mush. If somebody had asked Clary to paint the last couple days, it wouldn’t be a realistic painting, it’d be a Van Gogh-esque swirl of dark depressing greys intermixed with quick, exciting neons bursting with anticipation.  
And that’s how Clary felt right now, like she was bursting at the edges, she was a supernova of happiness, no matter the weather. She was all vivid colors, bright red hair against an emerald green dress that contrasted nicely against her porcelain pale skin. Clary wanted to dress professional, like she belonged at a fancy art gallery, when in fact she, at best, belonged in a studio with paint splattered on her hands and her hair tied up. It didn’t matter where she belonged, though, because nothing, not even her pinchy grey high heels, could ruin today.  
Clary dusted her cheekbones with shimmery highlight powder, spritzed some floral perfume on her wrists, and turned the silver knob to her apartment, journeying into the slushy New York streets in an attempt to hail a cab.

The art gallery was open and large, a modern masterpiece in itself. The walls were pristinely white and the hallway broke off into other, smaller block-shaped rooms, which smelled vaguely of paint and wood polish for the floors. The gallery was visually pleasing, but the best part was the fact that her art covered the walls, that the people milling about were considering buying art that she made.  
Clary made her rounds, a glass of champagne in hand (she was underage, but the gallery owner didn’t need to know that, and neither did anyone else), making polite conversation with the gallery-goers. There were the usual questions, her inspirations, prices, what genius the color scheme was, and she found herself answering the same questions over and over, but she didn’t care. She was ecstatic, a smile plastered to her face.  
She was conversing with a prospective buyer of an abstract piece she had done when she first spotted him. He was younger than most of the other attendees, probably about Clary’s age, eighteen, and he was tall, with golden hair and tanned skin that paired nicely with his all black ensemble. And, god, he was gorgeous, almost ethereal. She knew then she had to talk to him. Suddenly the idea of this old man buying her art, of him even liking her art, did not seem as magnificent, and she was rushing now, trying to get out of the conversation, keeping one eye on the pretty boy.  
When the deal was finally sealed, the artist had to take a couple of calming breaths to contain herself. Today must be a lucky day, she reminded herself, not everyday do you see a pretty boy and have your art gallery debut. The idea calmed Clary, if so many good things have happened already, this was just another surprise for the best day of her life. She sauntered over to the painting he was admiring, standing there in silence for a second, pretending to admire the art. She glanced over a couple times, pleased to see him staring back at her.  
He was even prettier up close; the only word to really describe him was angelic. She’d paint him in black and white, with wings blazing gold, with eyes to match. That seemed to be the only word that would fit for the boy, with his tall stature and high cheekbones and slim bones. He had his hand to his chin, lightly stroking his chin with pianist’s fingers, a small grin painted on his face. He seemed to be prolonging the silence, or maybe it was Clary’s imagination, because every second that passed felt like an hour.  
After what felt like an hour, but was probably more like three minutes, Clary was the first to break the silence that encompassed them.  
“I thought you’d jump on the chance to talk to your new favorite artist,” she teased, trying to play it cool, even though her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. The boy looked away from the piece, eyes sliding over Clary, observing her. She felt instantly self conscious, of her pale skin, of her short legs, of her childish body, but he seemed to like what he saw, because he smiled wider this time, revealing perfectly white, straight teeth.  
“You’re right. I would definitely jump on the chance to speak to Frida Kahlo. She’s not here is she? If you see her would you mind sending her my way?” He was smiling so widely now, it was hard not to join in, and so they each sat there for a second, smiling wickedly, and Clary briefly hoped he found her as attractive as she found him. Because, right now, honestly, he was truly beautiful, with a spark of mischief in his eyes.  
“Wow, I feel real special.” He laughed at this, throwing his head back just a bit. Clary was endeared. “Maybe you just don’t know who you’re talking to. Clary Fray. Also known as the girl whose painting you’ve been ogling for twenty minutes.” She offered her hand forward, suddenly glad she had thought to put on lotion before she left the house. He grasped his hand around hers, and it was rough and calloused and warm and strong, and made the butterflies in her stomach flutter even harder. And that was before he leaned down and pressed his slightly chapped lips to the back of her hand. Maybe it was Clary’s imagination, but he thought he held her hand for a moment more than was strictly necessary.  
“Jace Lightwood. It’s a pleasure to meet such a good artist.” He paused for a moment, almost like he was waiting for the blush to settle into Clary’s cheeks, for her heart to stop beating so hard in her chest. “And I’m not just saying that because you probably know Frida Kahlo.” She giggled, and he winked.  
“Maybe we could go for lunch sometime, just me and you? I mean, I’ll invite Frida, but she’s pretty busy these days.” Jace laughed at her lame joke, making Clary’s heart sing. If she were to paint this moment he’d be a shining light and she’d be basking in his warmth.  
“I think we could make that happen,” Jace replies as he hands Clary his cell phone. She couldn’t stop smiling as she punched in her number.  
It didn’t matter how the rest of the day went, just because of that small victory.

The romance of Jace and Clary was a quick one, a whirlwind of sex and sarcasm.  
The first three dates went well, conversation and wine flowed nicely, and Clary found out that though Jace was a little bit of an asshole, he was also a photographer who had a pretty smile, and that was what honestly made them both continue the relationship.  
It was a couple months later when they both said “I love you,” Clary said it first of course, in a fit of happiness. Jace, however, was more reluctant, but Clary didn’t notice, she was over the moon. That was the crux of their relationship, Clary didn’t notice much, she was just happy to be there. Until one day she wasn’t.  
And that was the day she met Isabelle Lightwood.  
Jace had invited her to a sort of impromptu photoshoot, not for her really, he never took pictures of her, but she went along anyway because the scenery was pretty and she loved Jace. They arrived in the empty, dandelion-filled meadow, where Jace set up his equipment and Clary sat down with her colored pencils and a sketchbook. She was idly sketching when she heard the car crunching the nearby gravel, and almost didn’t look up. She was glad she did when she saw the black heel dramatically step out of the vehicle, like it was in a movie.  
“Isabelle!” Jace exclaimed, but he was background noise now. Clary wouldn’t describe seeing Isabelle for the first time as love at first sight necessarily, because it was more like familiarity. It wasn’t seeing her and thinking, I’m in love with you, it was seeing her and thinking, I’m going to fall in love, aren’t I? Seeing Isabelle was like seeing an old friend for the first time, Yes, it’s you. It’s going to be you. Clary was absolutely dumbstruck. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think.  
She just sat there, observing the girl’s long, tan legs and dark, glossy hair. She reminded Clary of some sort of moon goddess, like Artemis, maybe it was the powerful way she carried herself. Clary had always had an obsession with the moon. In her mind, she was already painting a picture, The Moon Goddess Shooting Cupid’s Arrows. Clary had thought Jace was attractive, but his adopted sister was the real deal. Isabelle was an actual angel, but she dressed like she hailed from hell. A short, black leather dress covered her curvy, statue-esque body, paired with strappy black heels, she could have easily been walking the runway. She carried herself like she knew exactly how hot she was, with perfect posture and a high head.  
Clary was shocked when she saw Isabelle was walking her way, seeming to ignore Jace entirely. The click-clack of her heels against the gravel hypnotized Clary, and she was watching with wide eyes as Isabelle walked perfectly through the soft ground of the meadow, not faltering or tripping like Clary most certainly would have. She stumbled to her feet, feeling inadequate next to this ethereal being, but eager to shake hands with her. To Clary’s shock, Isabelle skipped the hand shake, and went straight for the hug.  
Clary’s heart literally stopped beating. Isabelle was so close she could smell her sweet, strong perfume. She could smell her shampoo, feel her soft silky hair tickle the edges of Clary’s face. Isabelle was taller than her, especially in heels (without them she was probably at least five-nine, and with them she towered over Jace even) so Clary was on her tiptoes. Clary hated admitting it, but she could feel Isabelle’s chest pressed against hers, and it felt comforting, more comforting than Jace’s flat, featureless chest. Overall, hugging Isabelle was ten out of ten, would recommend. But it would, Clary reminded herself, probably never happen again. And with that thought Clary’s stomach sank. She briefly wondered why this was, somebody shouldn’t feel that sad about not hugging their boyfriend’s sister again.  
When they separated, Isabelle pranced over to Jace, who, she noticed proudly, Isabelle did not hug. Rather, she stared at him for just a second, with her hands on her hips, obviously judging him for something, said matter-of-factly, “I missed you a little bit. Don’t be such a fucking stranger.” She then proceeded to start posing in the middle of the field, like this was the perfectly logical thing for her to do.  
And so the photoshoot went on, Izzy posing in ridiculous ways (that she somehow pulled off) and Jace clicking away, sometimes offering encouragement or yelling out when he got the angle just right, Clary absentmindedly sketching a charcoal portrait of Isabelle (charcoal was the perfect medium for her, she appeared to only exist in shades of black and white, literally, and morally too Clary guessed). There was occasional chit-chat, mostly between Izzy and Jace, which Clary just tuned out. The only thing Clary really did catch was quick phrases, something about their brother Alec and his fashion mogul boyfriend, how good Jace’s cooking was, and, worst of all, “I always take pictures of the things I love,” (Jace) and “that you do” (Isabelle).  
Clary’s heart sank. She’d never thought of it that way, that her boyfriend’s job was taking pictures, and never did he once take one of her. Clary knew he wasn’t as outgoing with his love as she was, but this really made her reconsider everything.  
And the more she reconsidered, the less sure she was that Jace actually loved her.  
But she was just being paranoid, right?  
But that little thought had wormed it’s way into her skull and made a home there.

The next time Clary saw Isabelle was at a family function, for Thanksgiving, almost half a year later, where she also had the pleasure of meeting Alec and his boyfriend, Magnus, who was personable and covered head to toe in glitter. Alec, on the other hand, seemed to be the exact opposite, stark and clean and a businessman. She liked them both, but she wasn’t sure how much Alec liked her back, because she always seemed to catch him staring at her with cold, unforgiving eyes, like she murdered his puppy.  
Or maybe it was because of how much time Clary was spending with Isabelle. While the last time they had met they’d hardly talked at all, this time they chatted together as if they’d known each other their whole lives, and it kind of felt like they had. Once again Clary felt this rush of familiarity, as if she was meeting someone who would be very important to her in the future. Besides being overwhelmingly gorgeous, she was also hysterical. Isabelle had a habit of making sarcastic comments in Clary’s ear after someone said something, which made Clary laugh and feel incredibly special.  
For example, when Alec questioned the practicality of Isabelle’s heels, she simply replied to him, “You know my motto, brother, nothing less than seven inches.” When paired with a wink, it was enough to make everyone in the room blush and look away. Clary chuckled, but inside her heart was sinking. That is, until Izzy leaned over to her, hot breath on her ear and whispered, “Jokes on them, I’m a raging fucking lesbian,” and abruptly Clary’s cheeks burned hot.  
After that she was hyper-aware of Isabelle’s body, particularly in relationship to hers, of how sometimes the edges of their thighs touched, or how they brushed shoulders when Clary got up and left the dinner table, suddenly aware that she had hardly even spoken with Jace, and he was her boyfriend.  
“Hey, babe,” Clary walked into the kitchen to see Jace sitting at the sink, furiously scrubbing at a plate. He was really digging into it, his muscles bulging unnecessarily, his hands white knuckled. Jace didn’t reply, just cleaned the plate more furiously, even though it was already squeaky clean. She was just about to say something when the plate shattered, showering the sink in shards of glass.  
“What the fuck, Jace?” Clary screamed. Nobody just accidentally breaks a plate, especially not while washing it. He was now huffing and puffing over the sink, a manic look in his eyes. Clary almost backed out of the kitchen right then, fear developing in the pit of her stomach.  
“What do you think, Clary?” His voice was steady, and if his eyes weren’t absolutely rabid she would have thought nothing was wrong. Clary honestly had no idea why, the only thing she could come up with was not spending time with him, but that wasn’t such a big deal, was it? Shouldn’t he be happy they got along so well. She must have been silent for too long, because he urged her, “Well?”  
Still, she said nothing.  
“Let me ask you a question, Clary, and I want you to be completely honest with me,” Jace was in a rage now, you could see it in the vein on his forehead that was violently throbbing. Clary’s heart was beating out of her chest, Jace had never, not once, ever hit her, but she was afraid he might start now. What would she do if he hit her? He wouldn’t do it here, with his entire family in the next room? “Are you gay?”  
“What?” Clary said it way louder than she intended, trying to put as much denial in the words. It wasn’t technically a lie, she was equally attracted to boys and girls (maybe she leaned a little towards girls, but that was none of his fucking business), and what did it matter to him? Did he not think she was attracted to him anymore? This entire outburst seemed unprecedented.  
“You damn well know what. I see how you look at her Clary, and I see the way she looks right back. And honestly, I’m disgusted. I thought you guys would have at least had the fucking human decency to tell me.” His words dripped with venom, and he needed to pause, not for breath or to gather his thoughts, but for the added melodrama. “God, Clary, I can’t believe you’re fucking having an affair with my sister!”  
Clary was taken aback, and it must have showed, because Jace snorted. “I’m not fucking Isabelle, Jace. Use your head sometime. I haven’t seen her in six goddamn months.” She was avoiding eye contact, and she hoped he didn’t notice.  
He did. “Look at me, Clary!” he yelled. She obliged, her hands starting to shake and tears forming in her eyes. “Maybe you’re not having sex,” he said this more calmly, each word measured and well thought out, “but are you going to deny you’re attracted to h--”  
The kitchen door swung open, and Clary could hear the click-clack of Izzy’s heels before she even turned around to face her.  
“What the hell is going on here?” Izzy yelled, mostly at Jace. “Clary, why are you crying? Jace, what the fuck did you say to her?” Her eyebrows were raised, her eyes wide and expectant staring at Jace, but he was speechless in the shadow of his sister. Clary smiled smugly, he wasn’t so tough when his sister was in the room. To be fair, Isabelle was fairly intimidating with her short leather skirt and Amazonian height.  
They all stood in silence, Isabelle glaring at Jace, and Jace avoiding eye contact. Clary crossed her arms over her chest, her hands still shaking slightly.  
Finally, Jace said, “Turns out my girlfriend here is a lesbian.” He paused again, “And you’re obviously her lover.”  
Isabelle laughed, a high clear sound that instantly soothed Clary but also spiked up her anxiety. Was she laughing at her? “While I can’t deny that your girlfriend is hot as hell, I doubt she is a lesbian. Because, if she was, honestly, she’d be all over this,” she made a motion with her hands, presenting her whole body, “and I’d honestly let her.”  
Jace was silent, but Clary could hear his heavy breathing, but she didn’t care. Isabelle had called her hot!!!  
“Bisexual,” Clary murmured, soft enough that nobody could hear what she said, just that she had said something.  
Isabelle’s eyes widened, with hope, maybe, and Jace’s eyebrows raised, “What??” he demanded.  
“Bisexual,” Clary said, louder this time, more confident.  
Isabelle smiled, and the kitchen door swung open once again, this time revealing Alec’s boyfriend, Magnus. He was smiling, carrying a stack of dirty plates, until he saw the three of them, and the smile fell right off his face. “So, as much as I hate inserting myself in other people’s business,” he paused. Like Jace, he had the habit of stopping for dramatic effect, but Magnus’s was more lighthearted. “Just kidding, I love inserting myself in other people’s business!”  
“What’s going on, Magnus,” Jace started, “is none of your--”  
Isabelle cut him off. “Everybody here is gayer than expected.” Magnus laughed.  
“Are you talking about my dear, Clary?” Magnus asked, as Isabelle nodded. “Ha! I knew I liked you!” He stopped, leaning forward, making the plates in his hand wobble precariously, “But the real question is, who do you like? And don’t say Jace, if you only liked him he wouldn’t be in such a tizzy.”  
“Jace thinks Clary and I have a thing,” Isabelle put in.  
“And do you?” Magnus glanced quickly from Isabelle to Clary, as if trying to picture the two of them together. “Have a thing, I mean?”  
Jace huffed again. “Obviously they do, have you seen the way they look at each other?” He was swinging his hands around wildly to illustrate his point, narrowly avoiding hitting the plates in Magnus’s hands. Magnus just set the plates down in the sink, not seeming too shocked to see the broken glass in the sink. Had they heard the two of them fighting in the next room over?  
“Now, Jace, here’s the thing: there’s a difference between ‘having a thing’ and being attracted to someone.” Magnus used a patient voice and air quotes to emphasize his point. He turned to Isabelle and Clary, who, admittedly, were standing very close together, but Clary was just scared of Jace, and Isabelle was like a shining beacon of protection. “Are you guys attracted to each other?”  
Clary’s cheeks burned as bright a red as her hair, and she was pleased to see Izzy, tall, unshakeable Isabelle, squirm a little at the question. Clary wanted to answer, but she was too busy taking steadying breaths, trying to calm the storm in her mind. Of course she was attracted to Izzy, who wouldn’t be, but what if Izzy wasn’t? What if Clary was reading her entirely wrong?  
But then she opened her mouth.  
And Clary’s heart actually stopped.  
Isabelle glanced at Jace, something sharp in her eyes, a warning maybe?, yes, a warning that he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “I’ve already established that I think your girlfriend is damn fine, Jace.” Her voice was surprisingly steady, her posture had returned to its regalness, and once again she was in goddess-mode. “I think we should ask her what she thinks.”  
Clary’s heart was beating out of her chest, the confession she was about to make hung heavy in her head, she didn’t know if she could get the words out, but everyone was staring at her, amused and excited and anxious. “Yeah, I guess, I guess I am, Jace. And I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, but lately I just don’t know anymore, and,” the words were falling out now, all her thoughts spilling into the open like spilled ink, and she couldn’t stop it, “the last time you saw Isabelle you said you take pictures of all the things you love and yet you never take pictures of me and that makes me wildly insecure. Paired with the fact that you always seem hesitant and distant, or worse, plain out angry, I just. I don’t know if I love you anymore, at least not like I used to.” She looked around, at Magnus’s smirk, and Jace’s thoughtful frown, and Izzy’s worried eyes but proud smile (proud of Clary for saying these things, or proud that Clary found her attractive? Clary couldn’t tell with Isabelle) and she felt a weight fall off her chest. Her words may have been harsh and hard, but now they were out in the open, they weren’t tearing away at her like they had been for months, maybe even the last year. And with these words out in the open, she realized how true they were, that she didn’t love Jace anymore, and maybe she never had.  
There was a silence that was too long to be comfortable, everybody lost in their own internal monologues, not really knowing where to move from here. Magnus was starting to look less amused and more uncomfortable with every passing second, this had clearly not gone the way he’d expected.  
“I guess we’re over then,” Jace’s voice was monotonous, and for the first time it occurred to Clary that she may have hurt his feelings. “I think you should leave.” Hearing the words come from his mouth made it all the more real, and tears once again stung her eyes. She willed her legs to move, to take her out into the harsh, New York winter, but they wouldn’t. All she could do was stand there, like she was a statue. She could feel Isabelle’s eyes on her, wide and beautiful, and then she did it. Clary left the house, her grey heels she’d worn the day she met Jace sinking into the snow, her phone already calling for a cab.  
Now that she was alone, sitting out in the cold in just a sweater dress, she could allow herself to cry. Clary let it all out, hot tears running down her face. And when she couldn’t cry anymore, she just picked up her phone, dialing her best friend Simon’s number, but the phone just went to voicemail, and Clary was all alone again.  
That is, until felt soft leather hit her shoulders, accompanied by the sweet scent of perfume. A warm hand caressed her freezing cold cheeks, and Clary couldn’t help smiling at Isabelle’s arrival.  
“I’m sorry, Clary,” she sounded so genuinely sad as she sat next to Clary on the curb. “Jace has always been a little bit of an asshole, and a jealous one at that. He was always paranoid about me stealing whatever girl he brought home. I guess this is the first time there’d been any truth to it.” She looked over at Clary for the first time, seeing the tear trails on her face, pulled her into a hug. “I honestly wouldn’t have done anything if I knew he’d react like this.”  
“It’s okay,” Clary muttered into Isabelle’s cashmere sweater she had thrown on over her skimpy outfit. She felt bad for probably ruining it with her tears, but Isabelle felt bad for ruining her relationship, so she guessed they were even. “You didn’t ruin it, I think it was already ruined. You just… prompted it, if that makes sense. Like, we were already coated in gasoline, and you were just the match that made us catch fire.”  
“Am I the match because I’m so hot?” Clary could hear the smile in her voice, and it made Clary smile too, and force out a little watery giggle. “Hey, darling, I think your cab is here.” Clary reluctantly removed herself from Isabelle’s embrace, shoving her arms in the arm holes of the leather jacket that was still hanging loosely around her shoulders. It was a little big, but it smelled like Izzy and it was better than the biting cold.  
She was practically in the cab before she turned around toward Isabelle, who was still sitting in the snow in her mini skirt. “Do you wanna, maybe, come with me?’ Clary’s voice was weak, but it made Izzy smile and come join her in the filthy cab to her house, so she was completely fine.

The cab ride home was a strange sort of silence, not because there were no words that needed to be said between them, but because there were so many, and if they started, they might not ever stop. Instead they sat in pointed silence, hands overlapped in the middle seat, simply being there, with each other, providing comfort.  
They stumbled up to Clary’s apartment in a haze, absorbing each other’s warmth through their hands, Clary leading the way up. Her apartment was fairly large, especially for New York, and considering the fact that she was only eighteen. If you hadn’t known the inhabitant of it, you would have easily guessed an artist lived here, or possibly a writer. The walls were a plain white, but you could hardly see them behind the shelves stacked high with books (mostly manga and art history textbooks, but if you looked there were some fantasy novels in there) and art supplies. There were a couple of paintings, most of them completed, and the wall next to the balcony was covered in sketches Clary had made of anything and everything. There was a small hallway, hardly long enough to be considered that, that led to the kitchen, which was small and also crowded with art supplies and paintings and the occasional takeout box.  
Clary was worried Isabelle would turn up her nose at her messy (she usually preferred to think of it as “bohemian”) apartment, but instead Isabelle seemed in awe. “You make this stuff? This is amazing, I mean, Jace said you were good, but he didn’t say…” Clary didn’t want to hear about what Jace didn’t say about her. “Wow.” She looked over at Clary, a wide smile that showcased all her straight, perfectly white teeth plastered on her face. She wandered over to the cluttered coffee table, flipping open a book on Francisco Goya, quickly pulling a face at the dark subject matter. “Have you read all these books?”  
“Most of them,” Clary shrugged, not mentioning that most of them were chock full of pictures. Isabelle still looked amazed, and Clary loved her for it.  
Isabelle had wandered over to the sketch wall, gently running her hands over the torn out paper, probably getting charcoal on her hands. “You really are amazing,” she said wandering around, now running her slim fingers along the spines of the books. Her eyes lit up for just a second, alight with an idea. Clary loved seeing her like that, and for just a second her fingers ached to sketch her. “Have you ever thought of designing? Ya know, fashion stuff?”  
In reality, Clary hadn’t. So she just laughed.  
“No, seriously. You should talk to Magnus sometime, he might be able to help. And even if it’s not with that, he could probably buy some stuff. He’s loaded,” she finished, rubbing two manicured fingers together to drive her point home. She had wandered over to the bedroom door, pausing for a moment, looking to Clary for encouragement and discouragement. When Clary simply nodded, her hand slid down the door to grasp the handle and gently open it.  
Izzy gasped. “Your room is so pretty!” Clary grinned. She was quite proud of her bedroom actually, she’d spent a lot of time and money on it, and it seemed like something very Izzy-esque. She’d designed it to be kind of whimsical and fantastical, with a large white vanity covered in makeup tubes and fairy lights, and a fancy wardrobe with paintings leaning against the side. She had a canopy bed, like a princess, and these walls too were filled with shelves and fairy lights.  
“Thank you,” Clary replied, too caught up in the compliment to really register the fact that Isabelle had taken a running jump on her fluffy white comforter. “Izzy!” she exclaimed.  
“So this is where the magic happens,” Isabelle surveyed the bed, from fluffy comforter to over-plump pillows. Clary just opened up her mouth, to say something clever, but no words came out. “Don’t worry, Clares, I’m joking.” Nobody had ever called her Clares before, and it was strange hearing Izzy make up a nickname for her, especially while she was splayed across her bed wearing a mini skirt and a tiny top.  
“You wanna, uh-” Clary had no idea what to say, bang? make -out? Brush each others hair?  
“How about we watch a movie?” Izzy suggested.  
“Uh, yeah sure,” Clary agreed, showing Isabelle her, admittedly small, movie collection. Izzy picked out Clueless, which didn’t surprise Clary that much, maybe because Izzy kind of reminded her of Cher.  
She’d like to say they watched the movie and laughed at all of Cher’s sick burns, but that’s not at all what happened.  
It started out with holding hands, she swore. But hand holding led to Izzy’s arm slung absentmindedly around Clary’s waist, which, after about five minutes turned to full-on cuddling. Clary would have been content to cuddle, but, no, Isabelle took it farther, rubbing her soft hands up and down Clary’s bare thigh. She murmured in Clary’s ear, saying that if she wanted her to stop, just say the word, she’d understand.  
In response, Clary grabbed Izzy’s face, looking deep into her eyes, and kissed her.  
Oh, god, kissing her felt good. She was soft and tasted sweet, and her long, silky hair felt heavenly between Clary’s fingers, as the kisses got deeper and deeper. Their hands were exploring now, Izzy’s leather skirt was inching up her thigh, as was Clary’s sweater dress.  
They were just about to take the next big step, Izzy’s shirt was off, and Clary was just in her underwear, when they heard the title screen playing on the far-off seeming TV.  
Clary pulled away, indicating the bright pink screen, “It’s over, you want me to turn it off?” Clary asked, realizing for the first time that Izzy was wearing a nude colored lipstick, which was now smeared all over her face, and probably Clary’s too.  
“Why don’t we watch some TV?” Isabelle asked, hand resting lazily on her exposed tummy. Clary had to admit how angelic Isabelle looked right now, a black lacy bra matching her leather mini skirt. Clary wondered if Izzy thought the same thing, she had on her nice underwear, dark blue and lacy, though she thought that a completely different person would be seeing them. Clary was sucking in her abs as she walked over to the DVD player to turn it off and retrieve the remote.  
They wound up flipping it to a Simpsons rerun, an episode where Homer takes Bart to a gay steel mill, but they weren’t really paying attention. “I’m really sorry about you and Jace,” Isabelle said, laying on her back and looking straight up at the white chiffon of the canopy. And then she laughed, “except I’m kinda not. I definitely did not think this was how my Thanksgiving was gonna go.”  
Clary laughed too, because it was so true.”Do you think he ever really loved me?” Maybe it was the wrong question, but she needed an answer.  
“I-- I honestly don’t know, Clary,” Isabelle answered finally. “I love Jace, but what he did to you today, that was most certainly not okay. He- what he did- he outed you, basically, and flipped tits over our thighs touching at dinner.” She sighed deeply, setting her hand in the middle of the bed, and indication that it was available to hold. “I guess, I kind of feel guilty, I think I took advantage of you when you were emotionally vulnerable. That’s why we’re watching this stupid show, and not fucking.”  
“No, honey,” Clary felt guilty for making her feel guilty. “You didn’t. No. I-I was attracted to you the first time I met you in that meadow. Hell,” she left a little at the memory, “I thought you looked like a moon goddess. I sketched you a lot after that day.” Isabelle was laughing, at her probably.  
“You’re kidding, right? The first time I saw you I thought you were the sun goddess,” Izzy admitted, still giggling.  
“It’s the hair, isn’t it? It can be offputting,” Clary said, stroking a piece of long, ginger hair. “Your hair is so dark, and glossy, it’s kind of like the night sky.” She paused before continuing, “Sometimes I draw it like that, your glossy hair with stars in it, like the stars in the sky.”  
“You draw pictures of me???”  
“Of course, I mean, I could show them to you,” Clary said, leaning over her to grab a stray sketchbook from the nightstand, flipping through to show Izzy her sketches.  
“You’re amazing. Honestly. It wasn’t really the hair, I don’t know how much you remember about that day, but you were wearing this yellow sundress, and when you smile, it's so pretty, and you just looked so...radiant.”  
“I was smiling because I saw you,” Clary admitted, smiling once again. It seemed easy talking to her like this, maybe it was the lack of eye contact, or maybe it was how late it was, or maybe it was just Izzy.  
“The sun and the moon. I always knew they were gay.”  
“This just in: the sun has come out,” Clary joked, and Izzy laughed, and all was right in the world, or at least this apartment, where the sun and the moon sat hand in hand.


End file.
